


Not Your Average Cinderella Story

by springonions_withranch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, American Football, American Public High School, Cinderella Elements, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, How Do I Tag, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Junior year, M/M, Nicki Minaj - Freeform, School Dances, School Newspaper, Science, Set in California, Unreliable Narrator, everyone ships sherlock holmes/john watson, its always the left shoe, mike stamford is not slick, school dances suck ass, sorry if this sucks, westwood high school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:27:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springonions_withranch/pseuds/springonions_withranch
Summary: Working for a school newspaper consisted of many different things. Some things were expected, such as paying extra attention to the gossip floating around the hallways, but some were a bit...unorthodox. One of those things being crouching around the shrubbery lining the entrance to the school and trying to get a clear snapshot of a certain student with a cheap, banged-up point-and-shoot camera.No, certainly, this was not how Sherlock Holmes expected to be spending his Thursday afternoon.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & Mike Stamford, Harry Watson & John Watson, Irene Adler & John Watson, Irene Adler & Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Morstan/Victor Trevor, Mike Stamford & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Not Your Average Cinderella Story

**Author's Note:**

> I’m an American with little to no knowledge of the school system in London, so sorry for that. Because of my limited knowledge(and in an attempt to not insult any Brits here), I’ve decided to set this story in America, where I DO understand the public school system. John is also a football player instead of a rugby player; football is kind of the rugby equivalent in the States. I don’t play football (contact sports aren’t my thing) though, so sorry if this is also inaccurate.
> 
> This is like, my second high school AU but I regret nothing, seeing as that I am a shameful and shameless creature at the same time.
> 
> This fic kinda hates on the Mary in this universe, but I’d like to say that I don’t hate her in the show. I think she’s a great character and such, but hon, Johnlock is and always will be endgame. Also, she almost killed Sherlock. Can’t forgive her for that, sorry babes.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> Big thank you to Anna_Dromeda, who beta-ed the first half of the story!

Working for a school newspaper consisted of many different things. Some things were expected, such as paying extra attention to the gossip floating around the hallways, but some were a bit...unorthodox. One of those things being crouching around the shrubbery lining the entrance to the school and trying to get a clear snapshot of a certain student with a cheap, banged-up point-and-shoot camera.

No, certainly, this was not how Sherlock Holmes expected to be spending his Thursday afternoon. 

Perhaps a bit of background to begin:

  * Sherlock Holmes was a junior at Westwood High, a high school located in California.
  * Sherlock Holmes was a member of Westwood High’s student-run newspaper, The Gold Digger (Sherlock was well aware of the stupidity of the name, however, the paper was named by a famous Westwood alumnus, so it stuck).
  * Sherlock Holmes was the (self-proclaimed) best journalist working on The Gold Digger and had a reputation for using skills such as deduction to get needed information.
  * Sherlock Holmes was currently enrolled in the Speech and Debate Club and was a member of the Science Olympiad team. He (occasionally) showed up to weekly meetings for both academic teams and sometimes dropped in on the Mathletes club meetings (to keep his mind academically sharp and sound, he had insisted to his best friend, Molly Hooper). His older brother, Mycroft, tried to convince him to take Model UN, but Sherlock insisted politics was “the lowest profession reserved only for the dullest creatures.” Of course, he said that to spite Mycroft, who was running for a place in the state senate.
  * Sherlock Holmes detested PE (Physical Education) and the sweaty, vulgar athletes that did well in only that class. However, he will _not_ deny the fact that he does excel in the rainy-day dodgeball games; the simple physics and equations to project a rubber dodgeball into someone’s liver came in handy in such situations.
  * Sherlock Holmes had a reputation at WHS for being a fearsome, sarcastic asshole. Which is somewhat accurate, according to Sherlock himself.



Right. So, why  _ was _ Sherlock slowly suffocating in his own body heat and sweat behind some lousy bushes? 

The short answer: it was for a newspaper article.

The medium-rare answer: it was for a piece in the gossip column, Tea Time, in The Gold Digger. Tea Time covered all the school’s gossip, from the short-lived relationships of the football players to the most heinous scandals of the math teachers. How the members of The Gold Digger unearthed these secrets, nobody knew. 

The medium answer: it was for a piece in Tea Time regarding one of the school’s most famous juniors, a boy by the name of John Watson. John Watson was known for his good grades, kind and compassionate personality, and position of Vice-President on the Student Council; his most famous attribute, however, was his occupancy of the position of “Captain” on WHS’s football team. His teammates revered him, a third of the school’s population fancied him, and not even the most vindictive of reporters could get a smidge of dirt off of him. He was, academically and athletically, one of the best students WHS had ever seen. That is, until now.

The full-cooked and well-done answer: Sherlock was bestowed (forcefully thrust) the opportunity to take the story when it was mentioned at the weekly meeting of The Gold Digger. Irene Adler, the head of the newspaper, had initially started the conversation about it; once she had, the entire classroom of students had exploded into chatter. Sherlock, who had had his AirPods in, paused Antonio Vivaldi’s  _ The Four Seasons _ and nudged Molly, who was seated beside him. He stopped doodling on the bottom of his left shoe and sneaked a look at what he wrote.  _ Benedict Stephens. _ Ah, yes. Sherlock’s fake reporter name.

“What’re they all blabbering about now?” Sherlock hissed to Molly. She gave him an exasperated look.

“You weren’t listening?” she whispered back. Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at her;  _ was she being serious? _

“Apparently not,” Molly sighed. “Irene wants someone to cover a piece for Tea Time.”

“And what’s so extraordinary about that? Is it about someone’s serial killer uncle? Why is the entire room acting like the President was caught dealing drugs to the Pope?” 

“This guy’s girlfriend is cheating on him. With a member of the basketball team!”

Sherlock blankly blinked at her. “And I care because…”

“Because the guy she’s cheating on is John Watson. You know, captain of the--”

“--football team, yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted. “Believe it or not, I  _ do _ know basic facts about the more popular students at this school.”

Sherlock didn’t tell Molly that he knew  _ a bit more _ than he should about John Watson. Sherlock wouldn’t confirm nor deny the fact that he  _ might’ve  _ had a minuscule crush on him in middle school. 

“Who’s the girl?” Sherlock asked Molly. Molly opened her mouth to answer when Irene let loose a piercing whistle that bounced off the walls.

“Everyone, shut up!” Irene demanded. The students complied and she placed her hands behind her back.

“As I was saying before I was  _ so _ rudely interrupted, we finally have a chance to write gossip about our school’s pride and joy.”

“I need volunteers to take this story,” Irene continued.

Upon seeing the wide-blown eyes and excited grins of roughly half of the students, Irene smirked. 

“ _ However _ ,” she added. The smiles vanish.

“Before all of you  _ simps _ create the 76th Hunger Games trying to get this article, I want to give you some more information.”

An assortment of groans emitted from the students. Sherlock snickered under his breath, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Molly.

“I have created certain requirements to narrow down my volunteer choices. Firstly, you must have a current, unweighted GPA of 3.5 or better to be eligible--”

“Hang on,” a foolish freshman interrupted. “If this is volunteer-based, aren’t you not allowed to tell people they can’t--”

“ _ Aren’t you not allowed to tell people they can’t _ ,” Irene mocks in a high-pitched voice. “Girl, I can do  _ whatever the hell I want _ . I’m the leader here, in case you’ve forgotten? Or have you also forgotten that I could kick your sorry ass off this newspaper faster than you could say ‘mayonnaise?’ If I want to pick and choose from a pool of people, I will.” Irene whips her head around to glare at the entire room. “And  _ nobody _ will stop me. Is that clear?”

The sea of students nodded unanimously and a few nervously gulped. 

“Does being a scary, bossy ass run in the family?” Molly whispered to Sherlock. 

“Irene’s my older cousin, everything I know involving intimidation and such I learned from her.” Sherlock shrugged. Molly mulled over his statement with a frown. “I guess one should learn not to mess with someone from the Holmes’s line.”

“No, they should not,” Sherlock agreed.

“Sherlock, if you’ve wrapped up your little conversation back there, I’d love to continue,” Irene drawled from the front of the classroom. 

“Yes, thank you for waiting for me, it’s my deepest honor, Irene, truly,” Sherlock replied, letting fatal quantities of sarcasm seep from his voice.

Irene shot him a look that said “ _ knock-it-off.” _ Sherlock begrudgingly blinked at her.

“Alright, on then. In addition to having an unweighted GPA of 3.5 or better, you must be skilled in being discreet. I know many of you have never worked on an article with such a popular person involved, so the reporter taking this must be able to be subtle and gather needed information without being detected. If the person of interest is aware of your presence, we won’t get an honest story. And I won’t have my reliable reputation tarnished by a couple of amateur underclassmen,” Irene said. She glared at the freshman in the front row for the last bit. “That being said, I think that wraps up the criteria. If you are eligible and want to be considered, please place your name on a folded slip of paper in--”

Irene held up a metal bucket.

“--this bucket. A reporter will be chosen by tomorrow morning, so please have your slips in by the end of school today. Any questions?”

A chorus of “no’s.” Irene dismissed the students and strutted her way to where Sherlock and Molly were gathering their things.

“How’s my favorite homosexual cousin today?” she greeted, addressing Sherlock.

“The meeting was brilliant today, Irene!” Molly gushed, cutting Sherlock off before he could reply. Irene shot her a bright smile, the gesture clearly a bit foreign to her. 

“Why, thank you, Miss Hooper.”

“I’m well, thank you for asking, Irene,” said Sherlock. “Unfortunately, I do not share Molly’s sentiments on the meeting today. It was quite dull; then again, most are--”

“Was it that dull, though? I thought that John Watson’s article might have piqued your interest,” Irene coolly replied.

Sherlock glowered at her. “And why is that, dear cousin?”

Irene shrugged and pretended to think for a moment. “Well, I suppose I assumed that because you had the fattest crush on him in seventh grade.” She smiled coyly. 

“You had no hard proof of that!”

“She didn’t need to,” Molly added. “It was  _ kind of _ obvious.”

“Kind of? Molly, dear, you’d need to be blind and oblivious as hell to not see it,” Irene said, ignoring Molly’s blush at the term.

“Yes, well, thanks Irene, I’ll leave if you two are just going to mock me for something that happened more than three years ago,” Sherlock snapped. He pulled on his signature, knee-length coat and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. He made his way down the isles of desks toward the door.

“No--wait, hang on, Sherlock. You’re not going to leave without putting your name in the bucket, are you?” Irene called after his retreating figure. 

“I’d rather  _ kick _ the bucket!” Sherlock barked. He flipped the middle finger in Irene’s way and slammed the classroom door behind him, coat billowing dramatically.

Molly turned to Irene, tipping her head to meet her gaze.

“You’re gonna make him do this article, aren’t you?” Molly asked.

“Yep.”

* * *

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the bushes, swearing under his breath when a stick poked his side.

The front door of the high school was suddenly pushed open by someone inside the building. Sherlock leaned forward, still squatting on his feet, and tried to spot his target.

_ There he is _ , Sherlock thinks.  _ John Watson _ .

A short, blonde girl trailed out of the building behind him, desperately clutching John’s right hand. She seems to be trying to talk to him, but John soldiers forward, ignoring her pleas for him to slow down. His letterman jacket with the name “WATSON” on the back is wildly swinging behind the girl.

_ Mary Morstan _ , Sherlock’s brain supplies.  _ Far-sighted, takes Physiology, Calculus, AP English Lit, a couple of other insignificant classes. Owns an orange cat, bakes with her family every weekend, has a spot on the volleyball team. Member of the Speech and Debate team. Compulsive liar and chameleon. Just your type on the outside, different personalities for different people, and a real bitch on the inside. _ Finished with his deductions, Sherlock strains to listen to their conversation.

* * *

“John, we need to talk!” Mary all but yells at John. A betrayed look in his navy eyes, John halts and faces her.

“What is there to talk about, Mary?”

“About us! What’s changed, John? You don’t talk to me anymore, you avoid me in the halls, after school, and at lunch! What’s wrong with you?”

  
  


_ So she doesn’t know he knows about the other guy. Either that or she wants to play the ignorant side. Interesting approach, Morstan. _

  
  


“What’s wrong with me? Mary, you’ve got to be immensely dense if you’re asking what’s wrong with me. What’s  _ your _ issue? I thought we were doing fine, and then I learn through some kid in the hallway that you’re cheating on me with Victor Trevor!” John accuses. An angry red floods his face, and his short stature seems ever-so-tall against Mary’s cowering figure. The sunlight catching in John’s golden hair makes him look like a Greek god (of course, in Sherlock’s opinion). 

Mary pauses for a second before retaliating. “I wouldn’t have needed to if you had been a good boyfriend! You don’t have any time for me! You’re always with your football goons or studying for some science exam!”

“Mary, it’s called being an athlete and a good student! I won’t become a doctor if I don’t make good grades! I have to do well on finals coming up, and it’s not my fault I have practice after school every day for three hours. Our last championship game is a month from now, we have to be on our top game!”

“You’re the captain of the football team, surely you could shorten practices to allow more time to your girlfriend,” Mary snipes. John glowers back.

“I’m dedicated to my sport and academics. Commitment is clearly something you don’t understand,” John fumes. “I’m not rich like you are. Some of us have to work to get into college and earn jobs. I can’t just bribe the CEO of a company with sex to get something I want.”

  
  


_ Bros before hoes. _ Sherlock snickers to himself.

The reporter makes sure to snap a photo of the scene unfolding before his eyes. A quick peek through the viewfinder tells Sherlock that both John and Mary are in the frame and focused; Sherlock captures the moment. He looks at the photo on the tiny LED display of the camera:

John is in the motion of ripping his hand away from Mary’s death grip. Mary’s face is twisted in some sort of plea; it would take an idiot to not see the evident regret flooding her eyes. 

On John’s face is a look of utter betrayal, sadness, anger, and resolve.  _ An interesting mix indeed, _ he thinks.  _ Too bad it conceals his strong features and oh-so-deep eyes. _

  
  


John and Mary were too busy screaming at each other to detect the soft “ _ click!” _ of Sherlock’s camera. If they had initially wanted to keep this feud between themselves, they were doing a shit job of it. The spat was anything  _ but _ passive. It was damn  _ aggressive. _

Sherlock tuned back into their argument.

“John, that’s not fair! You should have a third thing you’re dedicated to: me!” Mary all but shouts.

“As should you,” John cooly replied. “Listen, Mary, I do admit: yes, I’ve been a shitty boyfriend lately, but if you had just  _ waited  _ till after finals and all this crap, we could’ve been fine!”

“I’m done waiting for you, John.”

John snorts. “Clearly. You slid into Victor Trevor’s DM’s too damn quick to be hung up on me. I’d be careful, though, I hear they call him the ‘Rebound Man.’ And not just because he’s good at basketball.”

  
  


Sherlock contains a burst of laughter. It is indeed true that the students of Westwood High call Victor the “Rebound Man.” He snatches you up and throws you back out just as quickly. 

_ One of the qualities of being a trust-fund baby and a fuck-boy _ , Sherlock supposes.  _ He doesn’t have to worry about a bad reputation because his parents will pay off any company to hire him later in life. _

Mary snarls at John. “I can take care of myself, thanks.”

  
  
  


_ Click! _

Sherlock takes another picture, this time showing John tiredly rubbing his forehead and Mary crossing her arms over her chest. 

  
  
  


“This is goodbye, then,” John sighs. “My jacket, please.”

Mary rips it off her back and flings it at John’s feet.

  
  


_ Oof. Show a little respect, lady. That’s quality material! _ Sherlock thinks.  _ God, that’s such a basic thing to do. _

  
  


“Good riddance, John.” Mary begins to storm away in the direction of Sherlock’s bushes when John responds.

  
  


_ Click! _

A photo of Mary walking away and John saying one last thing to her.

  
  
  


“Have fun with Victor! Oh, and Mary?”

She turns. A clipped “What?”

“Go buy a fucking personality.”

Mary furiously shrieks and strides away, past Sherlock in the bushes and out of sight.

  
  


_ Click! _

A last snapshot of John after stooping to pick up his jacket. He looks defeated and demolished, a sag in his posture and hunched in shoulders.

_ Really, John, you shouldn’t blame yourself for this. She didn’t deserve you anyway. _

* * *

Sherlock, satisfied with the photos for the gossip column, crept out of the bushes. On his way out, Sherlock’s left shoelace gets tangled on a wayward tree branch and Sherlock tumbles out of the bushes.

“ _ Shit! _ ” Sherlock cursed. The camera fell out of his grip and clattered on the pavement a few feet away. Quick, nimble fingers worked at the caught shoelace, unsuccessfully untangling it. In his struggle, Sherlock didn’t notice the blond figure making his way toward him.

“ _ Fuc-- _ ” 

“Um, this your’s, dude?” a calm voice says. A tanned, calloused hand holds out Sherlock’s camera.  _ John Watson _ . 

Sherlock’s eyes widen in panic.  _ Shit _ . If John saw the photos on the camera, Sherlock’s “stealth” mission was all for naught. 

“Ehrm, yeah-- lemme just--” Sherlock attempts to snatch the point-and-shoot out of John’s hand. It’s yanked out of his reach.  _ Shit. _ John’s seen the lastest photo taken: him, forlornly staring after Mary, alone. 

“The fuck is this?” a baffled John asks. Panicked, Sherlock yanks the shoelace off of his shoe and pulls his foot free, leaving the tangled mess on the branch. 

“Thanks for getting that for me!” Sherlock exclaims, making sure to avert his face from John’s view. He lunges towards John and snatches the camera; once it’s safely in his grasp, Sherlock bolts away.

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s shoelace-less shoe is a bit too big for him, and it flies off his foot, landing somewhere behind him. In his hurry, Sherlock barely notices; he’s much too determined to keep his identity and photos safe and secret from the football star.

  
  
  


“Yo! Bro, you dropped your shoe!” John hollers after him. Too late. Sherlock is gone, like a fart in the wind. Huffing in disbelief, John picks the shoe up and looks for any identifying marks. He finds a small name in neat scrawl near the heel.

_ Who are you, and why are you spying on me? _ John wonders. He reads the name, not recognizing it.

_ Benedict Stephens. _

* * *

“Stupid! Imbecile! Definitely, absolutely stupid!” Sherlock angrily huffs, tossing the camera at Irene’s waiting hands. “I’m so stupid!”

Irene calmly folds her hands on the pile of schoolwork she had been plugging away at and looks Sherlock in the eye.

“What’s stupid, Sherlock?” she innocently asks. Sherlock turns his stormy gaze upon her.

“Me! You! Shrubbery! Shoes! Shoelaces! The American government! This article!” he exclaims. Irene raises her hands in a placating gesture. 

“Start from the beginning. And don’t even think about leaving anything out,” she prompts. Sherlock takes a seat at Irene’s table and takes a steadying breath.

“Since you decided to ‘award’ me with this story, I have thought of different ways to tackle it. Sure, I could just straight-up interrogate both sides of the party with no prior knowledge, but that would be awfully short-sided, wouldn’t it?”

Irene nods in agreement. One of Sherlock’s greatest strengths as a journalist was his research abilities.

“So, under my better judgment, I borrowed one of the crappy cameras all of the students on The Gold Digger have to share. Really, Irene, we should invest in DSLR’s. I’m sure Mycroft would be more than willing to donate five or so to his old high school--”

“Sherlock,” Irene interrupts. “Off-topic.”

“Right. Anyway, I was hiding in the bushes by the front of the school to get some photos of John and Mary. When they walked out of the building, arguing, I just took a few--”

“Hang on, how’d you know they were going to be there? At that time?” Irene questions, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. Sherlock reddens ever-so-slightly.

“Well, um, I took the liberty to observe John’s habits and whatnot so I could have the best opportunities to interview him,” Sherlock explains. “It just so happens that after football practice, which takes place immediately after school, John exits the school through the front building because he parks his car in the front.”

Irene claps her hands in delight. “My little stalker! Oh, how you’ve grown up so fast!” She pretends to wipe a tear from her eye.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps. “I was  _ not _ stalking him. I just memorized his daily schedule for the--”

“Yes, yes,  _ for the story _ .” Irene waves her hand in dismissal. “Honestly, Sherlock, you’re a better liar than this.”

“Yes, well, thank you for your input; whatever you’re thinking is wrong, so you can let go of your little  _ delusions _ . I am  _ not _ in love with John Watson.”

“Who said anything about being in love with him?” Irene gives him a cheeky smile. 

“You are--” Sherlock starts.

“--Absolutely right,” Irene finishes. “Get back to the story, lover boy.”

A huff of annoyance escapes from Sherlock. “ _ Fine _ . I didn’t know Mary was going to be there, as she usually doesn’t wait around for him after his practices. Now I know why: she’s been hooking up with Victor. Right, so when they came out of the building, they were in a  _ heated _ conversation.”

At Irene’s suggestive eyebrow-wiggle, Sherlock sighs. “No, Irene, not that kind of heat.”

“Darn.”

“So sorry to disappoint. So they’re fighting and such about John’s commitment to Mary and Mary blames their failing relationship on him. A bunch of dull, basic shit. Of course, idiots such as the people who read our paper eat that shit up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so I took a few photos of the scene. Take a look.” Sherlock gestures to the little camera. 

As prompted, Irene plucks the camera up and clicks through the photos. Her eyebrows raise, indicating her obvious interest, and she sets it down when she finishes.

“Ya know, if you weren’t so anal about science, I’d say you could have a future in photography,” Irene teases. “The composition on all of these aren’t half-bad!”

“Well, thank you, dear cousin.”

“Right, so, you’ve only told me what you want to tell me. I sense there is more to this, Sherlock,” Irene chastises. “You’re not the type to call yourself ‘stupid’ for a few measly photos. Or for getting leaves in your hair,” she adds, plucking a stray leaf out of Sherlock’s curly mane.

“You didn’t let me finish!” he exclaims. “Lord, you have the patience of a four-year-old!”

“Gracias, primo. What happens after Mary storms away in an angry cloud?”

Sherlock groans and buries his head in his hands. “You really want to know?”

“Hell yeah.”

“I somehow knew you’d say that. So, I tried to get out of the stupid shrubs and my--”

“Your gay panic sabotaged your ability to walk in a straight line?”

“Not helping, Irene.”

“Sorry. I’ll be quiet now.”

“ _ As I was saying _ , my shoelace got stuck in a dumb branch. I fell out into the open and I dropped the stupid camera and then John saw.”

“Both the photos and me falling,” Sherlock adds. “He was about to ask me about the photos but I got the camera before I had to answer. Then I ran out of there like a bat-out-of-hell.”

Finished with his tale, Sherlock searches Irene’s face for approval of his re-telling. She’s not looking at him; strange. Instead, Irene is peering at Sherlock’s left shoe (or the absence of it) through the picnic table.

“Should I even ask…?”

Sherlock sighs in exhaustion. “Must I explain that too?”

“Not all of us are blessed with the skills of deduction.  _ Se _ -duction is more my speed,” Irene says.

“Alright, so in my haste to get the hell out of there, I wound up just leaving the shoelace on the branch.”

“And your shoe fell off because it’s too big for you. I see,” Irene finishes. “ _ That _ I can conclude.”

“Yes, you’re a step closer to becoming the second-best reporter-detective at this school!” Sherlock mocks. He slow-claps a few times for good measure.

Irene shoots him an unimpressed look. “So you just left the shoe behind? With John?” A nod from Sherlock confirms it.

“Well, a necessary sacrifice for these photos! Good job, Sherlock,” Irene praises, not teasingly. 

“There’s one more thing,” Sherlock adds. Irene visibly gulps. “That’s foreboding,” she mutters.

“I wrote my name on my left shoe.”

Irene claps a hand over her mouth, standing in shock. “So he knows who you are?” she asks worriedly. If there was one thing Irene took seriously, it was the confidentiality of her journalists.

“Not quite. It was my pen name, Benedict Stephens. So  _ technically _ , he doesn’t know my  _ real _ identity.”

Irene grumbles, “If you have to use the word ‘technically,’ you’re already in trouble, dear cousin.”

“I don’t need to order a hit on him to protect your identity, do I?” she asks Sherlock.

“Definitely not! You know I’m usually game for a quick murder, but that might be...a bit not good. Especially because John Watson is a well-liked individual and his murder will most certainly end with the fan-person Apocalypse.”

“Uh-huh,” Irene murmurs. “Well, give me a call if your thoughts change.” With that, she slings her backpack over her shoulder and dumps the camera in Sherlock’s lap. “Happy trails, kid.” She struts away, leaving Sherlock with his dilemma.

“I sure hope no Benedict’s go to this school,” Sherlock muses. “I’d hate for John to go interrogating the wrong person.”

* * *

_ Benedict Stephens _ . 

The name runs through John’s head like a mantra on his way home from school. He mindlessly drives home, his arms navigating the steering wheel on his daily route home.

_ Benedict Stephens. Why are you spying on me and Mary? _

John parks his car in the garage and enters his house, shouting a greeting to his younger sister Harry. He doesn’t bother to yell at his mom. John knows she isn’t home.

John ascends the stairs to his bedroom and navigates his way into his bedroom. John pulls the door closed, tossing his backpack beside his bed. He walks to his bookcase and drops to his knees, fingers rifling through the stacks of books in search.

_ Aha, _ John triumphantly thinks, pulling a thick yearbook free. 

The title reads  _ Westwood High, 2019-2020 _ . John flips through the pages of freshmen hastily; Benedict could be a year younger than him. Alas, Benedict does not appear to have been a freshman in the previous school year.

He rifles through the pages again, grunting frustratedly when he doesn’t find a Benedict. John’s sure the student wasn’t older than him; he didn’t give off the “senior” confidence that seniors usually exerted. There’s a Ben, Benjamin, Bennet, and Bently, but no Benedict. 

_ Maybe he’s a junior, then. _

In his fruitless search, John doesn’t hear Harry clomping up the stairs. He doesn’t detect her striding towards his room and startles when his bedroom door is yanked open with gusto.

“John!”

“AH! WHAT THE FUCK, HARRY?” John shouts. “What did we say about knocking?”

Harry doesn’t even attempt to look sorry. “Well, big bro, I just wanted to check up on you. You didn’t raid the fridge for your post-football protein shake, so I figured something was up.”

She fully enters his room and flops onto John’s bed, belly-down.

“Whatcha doing?” Harry asks, peering at the mess of books on the carpeted floor.

John tosses the yearbook on the ground and sits criss-cross next to Harry on his bed. “Just going through some yearbooks. Ya know, sentiment and all that,” he plays off. 

Harry’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “IDK, sounds sus, bro. You’ve never done this before.”

John gapes at her. “Did you really just say ‘IDK?’” He shakes his head. “Not the point. Anyways,  _ yes _ , I am simply looking through a yearbook. Nothing  _ sus _ about that, Harry.” 

Harry rolls her eyes and reaches to grab the book. Her eyes fall on the open page and she scans the row of faces.

“Ooh, he’s kinda cute,” Harry comments, pointing to a photo of a curly-haired boy. “Not that boys are my area, though. What do you think, John?”

John stares at the photo. “He’s er…”

John thinks, _ Pretty, I guess. Pretty hot. BUT I’m not gay, Harry. I can appreciate his immaculate cheekbone structure without being gay, right? Or his luscious curls or piercing blue-gray-green eyes? _

What comes out of his mouth is completely different.

“He’s good-looking, I guess.” John adds, “Not that I’m into him, though,” when he sees Harry’s suggestive smile directed at him.

“Uh-huh.” Harry is unconvinced. “Well, what’s his name?”

John reads the small, size 10 Times New Roman font below the picture.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Harry cackles. “That’s the bougie-est name I’ve ever heard! Wow, I feel bad for that kid. His parents must have it in for him!”

“His looks make up for it, though,” she surmises. “Too bad he’s not a she. Or a freshman. I don’t date older classmen.” 

“Hang on, couldn’t we just check for other Holmes’s in the book?” John jokes. “Maybe he has a sister that’s a freshman!” 

Harry gives him a bright look. “Great idea, John!” she exclaims, completely missing the sarcasm in John’s statement. “Give me your laptop.”

“Um...why?” John asks, surprised. “The yearbook is right here.”

Harry rolls her eyes at her older brother. “No, dumbass. I’m gonna look it up on the school website.”

“Hang on, you can search for people on the school website?”

She mockingly facepalms. “Yes, you dummy, we’ve been able to do that for ages! Did you not know that?” Seeing John’s blank face, Harry gasps. “You  _ didn’t _ know that! God, you’re so old.”

“ _ Hey! _ ” John protests. “I’m not old!”

“You’re ancient,” Harry says matter-of-factly. She digs through John’s backpack and pulls his laptop free. Fingers flying across the keyboard, John watches as Harry pulls up Westwood High’s website and enters her school email address into the login bar. Once she does, Harry navigates the site to the student roster.

“See? Easy.” It’s John’s turn to roll his eyes.

Harry clicks on the search function and types in “Holmes”. Almost instantaneously, three small photos with descriptions underneath pop up.

“Mycroft, Sherlock, and Eurus,” she reads off. “Ooh, he  _ does _ have a sister!”

“That got expelled after her first semester as a freshman.” John reads Eurus’s description. “Interesting.”

“Well shit,” Harry complains. “She was kinda hot too.” Harry relinquishes the laptop to John and hops off his bed. “I’m off, brother dear! Things to do, places to be!”

“Right. Those things being homework and places being doing your homework,” John yells after her retreating figure.

“Yeah, yeah,” comes Harry’s response. Joh sighs; it’s a lost cause. The day Harry actually completes an assignment on time instead of reading 100k+ word fanfictions is the day John streaks across Westwood High wearing nothing but bright red underwear. 

He places the computer before him and types a name into the student search bar.

_ Benedict Stephens. _

¨Fuck!” John swears when a  _ ´No Results´ _ appears on the screen. He lays his head on his bed in defeat. 

_ Perhaps he goes to a different school then _ , John thinks.  _ But why would he be interested in my relationship, then?  _

_ He wouldn’t, so he  _ must _ be from Westwood. _

* * *

John ponders the question into the evening, mulling it over during dinner with Harry (his mom still hadn’t returned from wherever she was) and thinking about it whilst doing his homework.

It didn’t even occur to John to mope over his failed relationship with Mary. He had much more pressing issues.

  
  
  


_ Goddamn Benedict _ , John thinks as he sits down in AP Biology the next morning. His table partner is already there, lazily twirling a mechanical pencil from his long fingers. John takes a few minutes before class begins to steal a glance at the boy.

A junior, just like him. Dark, curly locks artfully mussed on his head. Sharp cheekbones and even more piercing eyes that follow the movements of the pencil. Pink lips with a dramatic bow in the middle, perfect for--

“What.” A deep, silky voice disrupts John’s thoughts.

John blinks a few times.  _ Who just spoke? _

“What do you want.” It’s more of a statement than a question. He concludes that the voice is coming from no other than the boy sitting next to him.

“Um...Nothing...bro,” John tells the boy. The curly head turns and slate eyes meet navy blue.

“Right. Quite convincing,” the boy replies. “If it’s nothing, why have you been staring at me for the past thirty-seven seconds?” 

John feels like he knows the boy but can’t figure out where he knows him from. He decides to voice this to the boy. Strangely enough, when John does, the boy sits up straight and his eyes zero in on John as if peering into John’s very soul.

Instead of feeling scrutinized and judged, John only feels curiosity from the hot stare. Or perhaps that was his wishful thinking, John does not know.

“Where would I know you from?” the boy asks. John shrugs.

“I dunno, man. It’s cool,” John plays off. “Don’t mind me.”

The bell rings throughout the school, signaling the start of first period. The teacher closes the door of the classroom, cutting off the chilly December breeze.

Taking his place at the front of the classroom, the AP Biology teacher starts taking attendance.

“Matthew Asson.”  _ I’d hate to have his last name, _ John thinks.  _ Poor dude. I mean, who wouldn’t hate to be nicknamed “Ass-Boy?” _

A boy sitting in the middle of the classroom mutters, “Here.”

“Addison Raymond.”

“Here,” a female voice peeps.

“Madeline Posa.”

“Here.”

“Dominic Evans.”

“Present.”

“Jer Richards.”

A high-pitched chortle followed by a deep, “Yup!”

John can barely contain his sigh of disgust.  _ Fuck boys. Gross. _

“Anna Johnson.”

“Here.”

“Phillip Anderson.”

“Yeah.”

“John Watson.”

John perks up. “Present,” he announces. As always, the teacher doesn’t even glance up from his computer and continues.

“Nicole Hargreeves.”

“Yup.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John scans the classroom, alert.  _ The boy from the yearbook _ .

“Here,” a baritone voice drawls.

_ Of course. I’m so fucking stupid _ , John realizes. He turns to the boy beside him, recognition wrote over his face.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John states. “I know you.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “What a great observation. What’re you gonna reveal next, the sky is blue and that penguins don’t have knees?”

John gapes at Sherlock, shocked. “No, nothing like that! I just um...I saw your photo in the yearbook! Yeah. Was just going through some old stuff and happened to see your face.”

“Well, to be fair, it is quite a memorable face,” Sherlock muses in his chocolatey voice. John wishes he could bathe himself in the tone of Sherlock’s voi--

“Boys, do I need to change the seating chart?” the teacher asks, glaring at them over the top of his laptop. John and Sherlock simultaneously chorus, “No, Mr. Chan.” 

“I didn’t think so,” Mr. Chan replies. He finishes calling role and projects the day’s lesson on the whiteboard. As it turns out, the students are completing a genetics lab. A girl named Molly Hooper assists Mr. Chan in passing out the flies needed for the lab and the students receive handouts on what to do.

The rest of the class is easy, as they’re simply following directions off a sheet. Mr. Chan lets the students chat amongst themselves and even plays classical music as background noise.

John uses the class as an opportunity to talk to and befriend Sherlock. After all, why should he not?  _ It’s good to know your fellow classmates, _ John reasons with himself.

“So,” John starts.

“So?” Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave the fly he’s handling with forceps.

“So...how’re you?” John ventures. Usually, he plays the part of charming, sociable, conversational, polite person well, but in these unusual circumstances (John being  _ slightly _ breath taken by the boy next to him), John is slipping.

“Look, John, I don’t see the point in useless conversation, so you might as well not try at all,” Sherlock snaps. “Now, help me or don’t.”

John blusters at the bluntness of Sherlock’s statement. “Um...ok?”

John Watson has never been rendered speechless by anyone. He’s always been known to shoot a witty comeback at any given statement or is the one who makes people lose the ability to speak coherently. 

Two-thirds of the ninety-minute class period pass by before Sherlock speaks to John again.

“Done.”

Sherlock lays down his tools and fixes his gaze on John. John finishes taking notes with a quiet sigh. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“You’re quite competent at taking notes,” Sherlock quietly comments a few minutes later.

John looks at him in surprise. First, Sherlock is snapping at him to keep quiet and the next he’s complimenting John? John has never been so intrigued by a human before. Not even Mary.

“Gee...thanks?” John will take it.

* * *

Since they had become acquainted properly, Sherlock consciously made a point to get to know John throughout several AP Bio classes.  _ For the article _ , Sherlock told himself.  _ Not purely for social purposes. _

No, it wouldn’t take an idiot to see that Sherlock was being what would be described as “friendly” in Holmes’s terms. 

Irene, who often faked a need to use the restroom to spy on Sherlock in class, noticed Sherlock’s change in behavior. She observed the non-hostile looks he shot John and the genuine, suppressed laughs he exerted when John made an especially bad joke.

Irene, who was not even considering a job in the medical field, prescribed Sherlock as head-over-heels in love. Or rather, head-over-one-missing-shoe in love.

* * *

“And that,” John continued, “was when Greg stole the football from Mike and threw it at my head! Greg, being Greg, horribly missed and pegged our coach on the nose. Needless to say, we had to run extra lengths the next day at practice.”

“Right, right,” Sherlock replies to his story. “Who’s Greg?”

John gives him an exasperated look as if he’s told Sherlock this many times before. “Greg. Greg Lestrade. On the football team? Receiver?”

Sherlock gives him a blank look.

John sighs. “Ya know, for someone so brilliant, you really are dense sometimes.”

“Why thank you, John.”

Now, more than several times a class, Mr. Chan has to reprimand the two of them to be quiet while he’s lecturing. 

* * *

Mr. Chan, of course, doesn’t mind this at all and has been waiting for the two of them to get their shit together.

He and the other teachers in the sciences department have a betting pool going to see who makes the first move. So far, $420 has been bet.

* * *

Sherlock, caught up in befriending John over roughly four classes, had almost forgotten about the article. Yes, the article about John and Mary’s falling out. When Irene had asked about his progress on the story three days after that fateful AP Bio class, Sherlock had panicked and told her he had made substantial progress. No more, no less. After all, lies only had details.

Irene was not easily fooled. “Just be careful,” she had advised him.

“About what?”

Irene gives him an almost pitiful look.

“Everything.”

* * *

“So, John,” Sherlock starts one morning. “Anyone in your life?” Seeing John’s confused look, Sherlock specifies, “Anyone special? As in, I don’t know, girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

John turns away from Sherlock and stares at his notebook on the table before him.

“Not quite,” comes John’s clipped answer.

“Not quite?”

“Well, there was someone. Then she went and fooled around with Victor Trevor and his ‘meat dagger.’”

Sherlock gapes at him.

“His...meat dagger?”

“He fucked her, she fucked him, God knows I don’t care who fucked who. It still hurt though, when I found out. And then again when she confirmed it.”

“What was her name?” Sherlock asks, trying not to sound too inquisitive.  _ You’re supposed to be comforting him  _ AND _ getting information _ , he scolds his reporter side.

John clears his throat as if saying her name is a cardinal sin.

“Mary. Mary Morstan. And to top the whole shebang off, I caught this guy spying on us while we were breaking up!”

Sherlock blanches and internally curses. He fights to regain his cool facade and awkwardly pats John’s arm.

“Did you--” Sherlock clears his throat. “Do you know who it was?” On the outside, Sherlock is calm. Internally, he’s screaming in panic and air-horn alarms are blaring in his skull.

“Come to think of it, no? I mean, I didn’t see his face, but I got his shoe. Came off when he bolted,” John says. “Hey, maybe you can help me find him!” he suggests.

Thankful to John being only slightly oblivious, Sherlock replies, “Sure. Any clues to go off of?”

John sighs in disappointment. “Unfortunately, nothing but a name. Benedict Stephens.”

Sherlock thanks his subconscious brain for not writing his actual name on the shoe.

“Hmm, Benedict Stephens. Isn’t he the guy who writes for The Gold Digger?” Sherlock questions John, who mulls over his statement.

“Yeah, I think so! You’re onto something, Sherlock. Amazing!”

_ I wouldn’t thank me yet, John. _

“Any time,” Sherlock replies.

* * *

“He’s male,  _ obviously _ , and from my calculations, is a junior,” Sherlock tells John one day before class. Sherlock’s deadline is approaching quickly, and he still needs more information for the gossip column.

“D’ya think Benedict would be working for the school newspaper? Cuz, like, why else would he be interested in school gossip and what not?” John asks, opening his notebook to an open page. 

Sherlock pretends to consider John’s statement and carefully nods. “That would seem most likely, yes,” Sherlock agrees. John writes  _ Who is B.S.? _ at the top of the page and starts a bulleted list of things they know about Benedict Stephens.

_ Who is B.S.? _

  * _Male_


  * Junior


  * Works for The Gold Digger


  * Dark hair


  * Wears size 8 shoe



“Not much to go on, is it?” John sighs in disappointment. 

The class goes by in a blur and the period bell rings, indicating the end of the class period.

“I suppose that’s that, then,” Sherlock says. “See you later, John.”

John bids him goodbye in response and Sherlock walks out of the classroom, intent on making his way to his next class.

A hand darts out of the sea of students in the hallway and latches onto Sherlock’s arm. 

_ Well-manicured. Dark red coloring. Gel polish.  _ “Irene.”

“Hello, Sherlock. We have a deadline to discuss.”

* * *

_ Ping! _

John’s phone chimes softly in his back pocket. He pulls the phone out and looks at the message on the display.

_ It’s from Sherlock _ , John realizes.

_ From: Sherlock Holmes _

_ To: Me _

_ Meet me in empty band classroom after third period. I have info regarding BS. -SH _

Excited, John texts back.

_ From: Me _

_ To: Sherlock Holmes _

_ sounds good. c u then :) _

After Calculus, John navigates his way to Room 235, a.k.a The Hookey Hangout. The Hookey Hangout was meant for students to use when they weren’t feeling particularly motivated to go to class and was frequently used since teachers couldn’t get inside. A bold student had changed the lock on the door and only gave copies of the key to other trusted students, one of those students being Mike Stamford. Mike often lent the key to his friends and acquaintances, though; when Molly Hooper had asked to borrow the key, he hadn’t hesitated to hand it over. Once she had retrieved the key, Molly had relinquished it to Irene, who needed it for “family purposes.”

  
  
  


_ “What do you need it for?” Molly asks Irene. Irene smirks in response, twirling the key on its keyring. _

_ “Family purposes.” _

_ “Right.” Molly’s bullshit-o-meter climbs dangerously high. “What is it really for? Need to store a dead body in there?” _

_ “Oh, Molly, the only dead body I’d need to hide is that one freshman. What’s her name? Sabrina Carson?” _

_ “If you need help disposing of it, I’d be happy to help,” Molly offers. Irene snickers. _

_ “Thanks for the offer, Molly dearest, but no dead bodies this time. It’s about Sherlock.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “As you know, I assigned him that article with no expectations of him actually completing it. I’ve been conducting my own investigation on the side,” Irene explains. “As it seems, Sherlock has used this article as an excuse to befriend John Watson, who has reciprocated friendly behavior.” _

_ Molly runs a hand over her face and groans. “I’ve seen enough Hallmark movie shit to see where this is going. They’ve fallen in love, haven’t they?” _

_ “Yep. Not that those blind idiots have realized it.” _

_ “Goddamn.” _

_ “Yeah. So, I need the key for The Hookey Hangout. I’ve texted John off of Sherlock’s phone and told him to meet ‘Sherlock’ there.” _

_ Molly looks at her in a mixture of shock, impressed, worried, and horrified. “You’re not going to lock John in there, are you?” _

_ Irene laughs, clapping a manicured hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Good idea, but no. Just gonna have a little chat with him about my cousin.” _

_ “Oh god, it’s the ‘break his heart and I’ll wipe the planet of your existence’ talk, isn’t it?” Molly asks, already knowing the answer. _

_ Irene brightens. “I knew you’d understand.” She turns on her heel and flounces off to The Hookey Hangout, leaving Molly in the hallway.  _

_ This damn Holmes family, Molly thinks. I feel bad for whatever is going to be left of John’s corpse. _

  
  


John moves to push the door to The Hookey Hangout open, but the door seems to have a mind of its own and swings open by itself.

_ Strange _ , John thinks.  _ Don’t they usually keep it locked? _

On high alert, John enters the dark classroom and shivers in its chilly atmosphere. 

The door slams shut and locks with a  _ click! _ John sighs at the dramatics; then again, it’s expected when dealing with a certain Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock, I’m always one for chilling in a dark classroom with no adult supervision, however, I’d love to get to lunch. What info do you have on Ben…”

His voice dies in his throat as a single light source switches on. John’s eyes burn as the white-yellow glow off the lightbulb scorches into his retinas. 

“John Watson,” a female voice says. The statement echoes off the walls of the empty (save two people) classroom. “What a surprise.” 

A shadowy figure struts in front of the lamp in the front of the classroom, outlining their figure with harsh light.

“Who are you, and where’s Sherlock?” John asks, more intrigued than scared.

“Hm. Predictable. You can’t guess?” the girl asks.

“Not really. Well, other than the obvious serial killer vibes I’m getting from you. I guess this would be a great time to murder me. No witnesses, empty class that teachers don’t dare check--”

The girl sighs in disappointment. “Sherlock really knows how to pick ‘em,” she comments. “Never thought he’d go for the dumb jock.”

John feels blood rush to his cheeks. Sure, he was a jock, but John Watson sure as hell wasn’t dumb.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he angrily bursts. The girl walks closer and the lights to the classroom switch on all at once, illuminating her striking features and bold, red nails.

“Irene Adler. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the girl replies.

“You run The Gold Digger,” John realizes. Irene claps slowly and smiles mockingly.

“So he does have half a brain cell! Not all goldfish, then. Yes, I do run The Gold Digger.”

John peers around the room. “So no Sherlock  _ or _ information, then.”

Irene chuckles. “Always at Sherlock’s beck-and-call. Faithful John Watson. It’s almost endearing, you know.”

“Thanks,” says John sarcastically. “I’ll just leave, then, if we’re done here.”

Irene shakes her head. “Far from it, Watson. You and I have much to discuss.”

“What would that be?”

“My cousin.”

John is confused. “Your...cousin?” Apparently, he is not living up to Irene’s expectations of himself.

“Sherlock. My cousin. Do keep up,” Irene berates. 

_ Is it a Holmes’ family trait to constantly insult others? Because damn, this is ruthless _ , John thinks.

“Yes. I have summoned you here to warn you, John Watson.”

“Warn me about what? My life choices? The weather tomorrow?”

“Two--no, three things: one, someone has been following you for the past days and is writing a newspaper article about your breakup with Mary. Two--”

“Hold your fucking horses; following me? Do you mean Benedict Stephens?” John asks Irene, who shrugs.

“Yes and no. I am the person doing research and the story on you and Mary. Benedict was simply a precaution. Benedict isn’t even a real person.”

“Isn’t a real person? What?” John questioned. He brings his fingers to his temples and rubs his head. “And please, straight answers. Any more vague answers and I  _ just might _ rip my hair out.”

Irene snorts. “As entertaining as that may be, I think Sherlock prefers you with a full head of hair.”

“Benedict Stephens is a pen name for one of my journalists. Pen names are used to protect the identities of our members so they don’t get mugged and jumped for the things they write in the paper. Because your observational skills and deductive reasoning are less than average--”

“If the average is Sherlock Holmes, then yeah, I’m a dim-wit. In my own humble opinion, however, I think I’m pretty alright in the brains department. So if you could  _ please _ stop bagging on my intelligence, that’d be great. Thanks,” John says sassily.

Irene’s eyes flick up and down his body, assessing him. “I can see why Sherlock likes you. Strong, smart, not an absolute pussy; doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes  _ and _ male.”

John gapes at Irene. His cheeks and ears go hot, and John feels the need to find a cold glass of water. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he squeaks.

Irene sighs. “You heard me, John. Sherlock Holmes has a despairingly colossal crush on you, not that you’ve noticed because you’re too caught up in your feelings for him.”

John opens his mouth to protest, but his voice dies in his throat.

_ “How do you know?” John whispers to Sherlock, who was deducing a girl in their science class as Mr. Chan recited the daily agenda off the whiteboard. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock’s sharp, calculating face and can’t help a feeling of awe and amazement.  _

_ “A recent habit of bringing a fresh cup of to-go coffee into class every morning. The cup tells us--” _

_ John tries to squash the tingly feeling in his chest after Sherlock says “us.”  _

_ “--that she is now making a habit of going to the Starbucks on Alhambra Boulevard every day before school. A different drink each time, differing from an iced Americano to a Peppermint mocha. The name on the cup is carefully written, not the usual hasty scrawl you see from impatient Starbucks cashiers. Ignoring the garish, holiday-themed design on the paper cup, we observe that the same cashier writes her order every time.” _

_ “Couldn’t the barista just have a shift during that time?” John asks, pretending to take notes in his notebook. The corners of Sherlock’s cupid-bowed lips slightly lift up, indicating Sherlock is pleased with John’s inquiry. John preens slightly under Sherlock’s pale glare. _

_ “Excellent question. I have done some digging and surveillance of my own and this certain barista gets off his shift at 7:30 but stays on the clock until 7:48 when the girl leaves the shop to make her way to school. He makes a certain point to stay specifically for her--” _

_ “How are you certain he likes her and not any other customer?” _

_ “Ah. Quite easy. During my surveillance, I managed to sneak up to the counter while the girl was making her order. The boy’s eyes were dilated and the quickly throbbing vein in his neck indicated that he was attracted to her. She likes him due to the increased ‘grinning’ she does around him. The girl tends to act significantly more friendly when she interacts with him, indicating attraction. Between both parties.” _

_ “Brilliant,” John mummers under his breath. “Amazing!” _

_ Sherlock gives him a warm, almost hopeful look. “You really think so?” _

_ John couldn’t believe him. “Are you kidding? That was one of the coolest fucking things I’ve ever witnessed!” John hisses.  _

_ Sherlock looks completely caught off guard. “That’s...not what people usually say.” _

_ “What do they usually say?” _

_ Sherlock averts his gaze and twiddles his thumbs together. _

_ “Piss off, freak,” Sherlock mumbles after a moment. He looks at the whiteboard and avoids John’s gaze.  _

_ At that moment, John swore he would brutally attack anyone that made Sherlock feel that dejected ever again. The amount of rage bubbling up in his short yet built figure was probably unhealthy, but John couldn’t find it in himself to give a fuck. _

_ That pent up anger followed John throughout the rest of the day. Why couldn’t people just accept Sherlock’s brilliance and utter luminosity? _

_ “Yo! John! Bro!” Greg Lestrade calls John after football practice that day. John slows his pace and allows Greg to jog up to him. They walk back to the locker room with the rest of the team. _

_ “What was that today?” Greg asks John. “You practiced like someone beat you out of first place in Kahoot! I haven’t seen that kind of aggression from you in a while!” _

_ John finds his locker, conveniently next to Greg and Mike’s lockers. He twists the lock to enter his combination (30-12-30) and pulls the locker door open. _

_ “I dunno, Greg. I guess I have a lot of emotions today?” _

_ A fellow player calls out, “John’s got his period!” A chorus of giggles bubble up from the boys and John shoots them all a hateful look. _

_ Greg nods and pats his shoulder in understanding. “I feel that. Lots of dudes are feeling the pressure to get dates for the winter dance.” _

_ “It’s not necessarily that--” _

_ Mike cuts in and grabs John’s face in his meaty hands. “Who’s caught your eye, Johnny-boy? Who’s the lucky girl?” _

_ “Or guy!” a boy named Nikolaus shouts from a few rows over. The boys mummer in agreement; it seems the whole locker room is invested in their conversation now.  _

_ “Whoever it is, Captain, heed this advice!” a topless boy named Sal tells John. He climbs on top of the locker room bench and looks every single half-naked boy in the eyes. John resists the urge to roll his eyes. _

_ “In the wise words of our queen Nicki Minaj: _

_ My anaconda don’t want none--” _

_ Sal flaps his arms up and down, urging the boys to finish the lyric. _

_ The team does not disappoint and chants, “UNLESS YOU GOT BUNS, HUN.” _

_ They collectively cheer and finish changing, occasionally flinging underwear and other articles of clothing at each other. _

_ “John,” Greg ventures. “Who’re you taking?” _

_ In response, John shrugs and pulls his shirt on. “With everything that’s happened with Mary recently, who’d want me for a date? Apparently, I’m absent, not committed, boring, and I spend too much time studying or running about with sweaty boys in ‘tight-ass shorts!’” _

_ Mike chuckles. “Funny. You’re the second person to say that today.” _

_ “Someone else you know fits that description?” Greg inquires. Mike chuckles.  _

_ “Not that part, dumbass. Someone was complaining that no one would ask them to the dance; I just heard that part of a conversation that person was having with his cousin. I was kind of surprised, though. The guy who was complaining usually doesn’t go to the school events.” _

_ “Who?” John asks, intrigued. “Maybe we could make a club.” _

_ Mike nervously laughs and his eyes go wide as if he revealed something he wasn’t supposed to. “See, heh, thing is, I wasn’t really listening,” he hurriedly says. “Gotta go!” Mike grabs his things and stuffs them into his bag. _

_ “Go where?” Greg asks at the same time John calls, “Bullshit, Stamford!” _

_ “Um...I have to...feed my dog!” _

_ Mike dashes out of the locker room and leaves the door swinging wildly in his wake. _

_ “Isn’t he allergic to dogs?” John asks Greg. Greg nods. “Wonder what spooked him.” _

_ “Still haven’t answered my question, John. Maybe I can help you woo this mystery person? There’s clearly someone. You’ve got this ‘far away’ look in your eyes.” _

_ Damn Lestrade, John thinks. Always too observant when you don’t want him to be. He’d make a great detective. _

_ “Uh. Well…” _

_ “C’mon, bro, just tell me! I promise I won’t judge!” _

_ John relents. “If I were to take anyone, it’d probably be this guy in my bio class. Sharp as nails, sarcastic as hell, beautiful eyes--” _

_ “Ooooh, Johnny, you’ve got the L-word!” Greg whoops.”My boy’s in love!” _

_ “Keep your voice down,” John hisses, yanking Greg’s face closer to his by Greg’s shirt. “You can’t tell anyone. I mean it.” _

_ Greg nods solemnly. “By my troth, I swear to uphold--” _

_ “Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” John groans, letting go of Greg’s shirt. _

_ “Thanks, Captain.” _

_ They leave the locker room and go their separate ways, Greg tirelessly mocking John till he’s out of sight. _

_ Love, John thinks. I’m in love with Sherlock. _

John’s silent stretch confirms Irene’s statement. “Right,” she drawls. “Anyway, Benedict Stephens is a lot closer than you think he is. That’s all you get, brainiac.”

John sighs. “What’s your second and third warning?”

Irene smirks. “Two was Sherlock liking you. Three, well...break his heart, and let’s just say they will  _ never _ find your body. Simple as that.”

“How very comforting,” John says. “I’ll just get going, then.” He walks to the door of the classroom, which he unlocks. “Unless you’ve got any other words of wisdom?”

“If you’re planning on asking Sherlock to the dance, don’t make a big spectacle. He also hates flowers. And some other romantic crap. I’m not even sure if he’s going. Also, you really should pay attention to peoples’ handwriting,” Irene says.

“Good to know,” John mutters. “Thanks, I guess.” He has one foot out of the door before Irene says one last thing.

“You’ve got spunk, Prince Charming. Your shoe-less Cinderella is just around the corner.”

* * *

_ From: Irene Adler _

_ To: Sherlock Holmes _

_ Hey cuz. Bought you a ticket to winter dance on 12/17. Semi-formal attire. u better b there. _

_ From: Sherlock Holmes _

_ To: Irene Adler _

_ No. -SH _

_ From: Irene Adler _

_ Yes. _

_ From: Sherlock Holmes _

_ I will not be bullied into attending such ridiculous functions, Irene. You know I hate the aimlessly hopping crowds of people and loud, invasive music. Not to mention the kids that vape in the bathrooms. And the horrific, awkward “slow dances” that are meant to be romantic and the couples too busy sucking each other’s faces off to notice their friends secretly filming it all. Let’s not forget the immature dimwits that use their ties as headbands because they’re not accustomed to formal attire. Also, I wouldn’t have any people there to talk to, which sets me up for a very dull evening. -SH _

_ Shezza, I’ll be there. Molly too _

_ Don’t call me that ever again. Besides, you and Molly will be too busy flirting with each other to save any conversation for me. -SH _

_ That’s only about 60% true, Shezza. Plus, I bet u would have fun deducing the poor suckers @ the dance. _

_ While true, I would rather spend the evening chewing off my own foot. -SH _

Irene reads the text and sighs in resignation. “You made me do this, Sherlock Holmes, you stubborn ass.”

_ John’s gonna be there. Dateless and single. And he likes you. _

Twenty seconds go by before Sherlock’s response, indicating he actually thought about it.

_ I suppose attending the dance for half an hour wouldn’t be too horrible. -SH _

Irene smirks at her phone screen.

Hook, line, and sinker. 

* * *

Loud, bass-boosted music blasts from the school gym’s speakers. Balloons and streamers decorate the inside of the gym, and strobe lights illuminate the otherwise dark room. The DJ is set up on a stage in the front of the gym, and tables with (not free) snacks line the gym on the outside.

Students fill the gym and the surrounding areas, conversing loudly over the obnoxious music or simply bobbing along to the beat. 

Cool winter air outside the gym provides refuge from the sweltering dampness of the gym. Clumps of people lounge around on the quad outside the gym and socialize with each other.

Sherlock is one of these people. He leans against a bench and listens to Molly, Mike, Irene, and a few others converse with one another. Currently, they’re excitedly squealing about superhero movies. 

“Team Cap or death!” Mike declares with bravado. Greg and Molly cheer in agreement while Irene, a girl named Sally, and a boy named Phillip shake their heads.

“Team Iron Man is clearly superior!” Phillip retorts. “Team Cap is nothing but a bunch of vigilantes running around without government supervision while destroying cities left and right!”

“Exactly,” Sally says. “The government was  _ not _ out of line to suggest the Sokovia Accords. Besides, the Avengers would still have been able to operate. Steve Rogers should have just signed the documents and then all would have been fine!”

“You’re forgetting about Bucky,” Molly speaks up. “He would have stayed the Winter Soldier if it weren’t for Steve! Plus, it was the government’s fault that he got brainwashed again! If the CIA hadn’t put him in the cage with Zemo, I’m pretty damn sure Iron Man and Cap would still be friends!”

“Can you blame the CIA, though? Even though Zemo framed Bucky, they still believed he committed an act of terrorism. As well as other assassinations throughout history, so I think they had the right cause to hold him,” Irene defends. “Plus, Zemo got what he deserved in the end; who were the people that imprisoned Zemo at the end of Civil War? THE FUCKING CIA. That’s who.”

“But--” Greg tries but Phillip cuts him off.

“They took care of the real threat, Lestrade. In the wise words of CIA agent Everett Ross:

Touch the glass: zap. Raise your voice: zap. Step out of line: zap. Do me a favor, would you? Please step out of line,” Phillip quotes. 

“Yes, but who--”

“This conversation is going in circles,” Sherlock snaps from his seated position on the bench. He stands up and brushes invisible dirt off of his pants. “Do we really have nothing better to do than sit here and argue about fictional characters and events?”

“Well, smart ass, I suppose you want to tackle the dance floor, then?” Irene suggests. 

_ It couldn’t be any duller than this, _ Sherlock thinks.

“Why not?” Sherlock almost challenges. “Bring it on.”

  
  
  


That’s how Sherlock Holmes found himself sandwiched between two thrashing freshmen in the gym. Molly and Irene had gone off together and Mike and Lestrade had left in search of the other football guys. Sally and Phillip, who Sherlock despised, had flitted off to try and sneak free snacks off the snack tables.

_ If this display is what “dancing” is considered these days, I’ll just tell Mycroft to cancel my waltz lessons and schedule “awkward gyrating” instead. _

Sherlock, who stood tall above the sea of shorter students, tried to stay afloat in the mass. A vulgar rap song was playing through the speakers, and the students were screaming along with the lyrics. 

“LIKE A LIGHT!” the teenagers shout.

_ This is such a low form of entertainment _ , Sherlock spitefully thinks.  _ I bet I look like an idiot, all alone on the dance floor. _

The DJ switches the song up and pop music plays. 

“We’re going to play a slow song next, so if you’ve got a date tonight, be sure to stick around for that!” the DJ announces.

_ Wonderful. This gym is going to be filled with short-lasting cringey couples that are going to break up two weeks after this dance. _

“RED LIGHTS, STOP SIGNS!” the crowd screams. “I STILL SEE YOUR FACE IN THE WHITE CARS, FRONT YARDS.”

“Anyone famous thinks they can make music these days,” Sherlock says to no one in particular. It’s not like anyone can hear him anyway; the music is much too loud. He scans the crowd, searching for any familiar faces.

It appears Irene lied. John Watson was not visible to Sherlock and was most likely not even at the dance.

_ Clever Irene, _ Sherlock thinks.  _ What a manipulative way to get me to come to a school dance. _

* * *

“Johnny! We’re going to be late!” Harry shouts to John from the first floor of their house.

“Coming!” John replies. He abandons the hair product in his hair and throws his shoes on. He dashes downstairs and meets Harry in his car. 

“What did you do to your hair?” she asks him once they’re on the road. John gives her a side-eye and replies, “Semi-formal, right? Might as well try to style it.”

“Mhm. Nothing to do with that Holmes boy, right?”

John looks away from the road for a split second to glare at Harry. “You know what? You can walk to school--”

“Sorry! Geez, someone’s sensitive today,” Harry apologizes. “It looks…”

“Oh god,“ John moans. “It looks terrible, doesn’t it?”

“No, not at all!” Harry quickly says. “It just makes you look older. More mature.”

“Reminds me of Dad,” she quietly adds. John doesn’t say anything and pats her shoulder.

A few minutes of silence and driving pass by before they pull up at Westwood. The clock reads  _ 7:15 P.M. _

“Great! We’re only thirty minutes late,” Harry says. John facepalms and replies, “So sorry I wanted us to get here  _ safely _ . I’ll let  _ you _ drive next time.”

“Now, since Mom isn’t here, I have to set the rules--”

“ _ Do we really need to do this? _ ” Harry groans. 

“Yes!”

“FIne. I won’t do drugs, I won’t go off anywhere with a random stranger, I’ll use the buddy system, and I won’t drink any of the spiked punch. Is that good enough,  _ Mom _ ?” 

“Almost,” John says. He turns the car off and gets out, bringing Benedict Stephen’s shoe with him. Harry does the same on the passenger side, minus the shoe.

“Harry, you’re a freshman now, and I trust that you’ll make the right decisions.”

“Thanks, Johnny. Have fun stalking Shoe Boy!” Harry begins to run off and John yells after her, “Have fun! Say hi to Clara for me!”

Harry’s retreating figure flips John off and she joins the mass of students in the gym. John follows suit and soldiers his way to the gym, tucking the shoe underneath his arm.

“I’m coming, Benedict. Or should I say, Sherlock.”

* * *

The pop music stops and a slow song with a violin intro pipes through the gym. Students immediately couple up and awkwardly wrap their appendages around their partners. Sherlock is puzzled; he doesn’t recognize the piece. Perhaps he’s slipping. He turns on his heel to evacuate the gym (and the “happy” couples; it sickens him slightly). Sherlock doesn’t want to be the only loser inside the gym without a partner.

“Sherlock!” a boy yells over the crowd. Sherlock stiffens and turns around.

_ John. _

“You came,” Sherlock states. John grabs his elbow and breathes heavily.

“Of course I did,” John responds. “Who wouldn’t want to miss a school dance as a newly-single high school junior?” he jokes. Sherlock huffs a laugh at that.

“You’re only about thirty minutes late.”

“Sorry; traffic was murder.” John winks at Sherlock, who is currently trying very hard not to blush.

“Anyways, I’m glad I caught you,” John continues. “Got something I want to return to you.” He holds out  Benedict’s Sherlock’s shoe.

Sherlock feels ashamed and his face heats up. “Listen, John, I can explain--”

John laughs. “No need. Irene told me everything.”

Sherlock double-takes. “She did?”

“Not directly; took me a while to figure out, but she gave me some hints.”

“Hm.”

“‘Hm’ yourself, Mr. Stephens. Anyways, I’m not too torn up about the article. It’ll probably be more embarrassing for Mary than it will be for me,” John admits.

“That’s a relief,” Sherlock says. 

They stand next to each other in silence for a few beats as the slow song swells and piano notes flow through the speakers.

“Oh, I love this song!” John tells Sherlock, who blankly looks at him. John laughs. “Do you really not know this one?”

“No,” Sherlock says. John raises his eyebrow. 

“This song is iconic! It’s called ‘All My Life,’ by K-Ci and JoJo.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock replies. “It’s alright, I suppose. Nice melody.”

“I suppose that’s the highest compliment you could give to a song that’s not classical music,” John says. 

  
  


“I bet we look like a bunch of fools just standing around while everyone’s dancing,” Sherlock mutters. “I bet you’ve got a line of people waiting to dance with you, Watson.”

“Do you not? Have a dance partner?” John asks him, slightly tightening his grip on Sherlock’s elbow.

“Um...not at the moment, no.”

John slyly smiles at him. “And why is that?”

“Waiting for the right person.”

“And how do you know you’ll find that person?”

  
  


_ Fuck it. Go big or go home, Holmes. _

  
  


Sherlock tosses his shoe aside and grabs John’s hand. 

“I guess we’ll just have to find out.” Sherlock urges John, gently leading him onto the dance floor.

  
  


“Oh god, yes.”

  
  


_ “All my life I pray for someone like you. And I thank god that I’ve finally found you,” _ the song plays. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Sorry for any grammatical/spelling errors
> 
> Next chapter is an epilogue but that won't be up for a while.


End file.
